Aking Or Piercing The Tempest With Sails. Came Blanid, Mac Nessa, Tall Fergus Who Feastward Of Old Time Slunk, Cook Barach, The Traitor; And Warward, The Spittle On His Beard Never Dry, Dark Balor, As Old As A Forest, Car-Borne, His Mighty Head Sunk Helpless, Men Lifting The Lids Of His Weary And Death- Making Eye. And By Me, In Soft Red Raiment, The Fenians Moved In Loud Streams, And Grania, Walking And Smiling, Sewed With Her Needle Of Bone. So Lived I And Lived Not, So Wrought I And Wrought Not, With Creatures Of Dreams, In A Long Iron Sleep, As A Fish In The Water Goes Dumb As A Stone. At Times Our Slumber Was Lightened. When The Sun Was On Silver Or Gold; When Brushed With The Wings Of The Owls, In The Dim- Ness They Love Going By; When A Glow-Worm Was Green On A Grass-Leaf, Lured From His Lair In The Mould; Half Wakening, We Lifted Our Eyelids, And Gazed On The Grass With A Sigh. So Watched I When, Man Of The Croziers, At The Heel Of A Century Fell, Weak, In The Midst Of The Meadow, From His Miles In The Midst Of The Air, A Starling Like Them That Forgathered 'Neath A Moon Waking White As A Shell When The Fenians Made Foray At Morning With Bran, Sceolan, Lomair. I Awoke: The Strange Horse Without Summons Out Of The Distance Ran, Thrusting His Nose To My Shoulder; He Knew In His Bosom Deep That Once More Moved In My Bosom The Ancient Sad- Ness Of Man, And That I Would Leave The Immortals, Their Dimness, Their Dews Dropping Sleep. O, Had You Seen Beautiful Niamh Grow White As The Waters Are White, Lord Of The Croziers, You Even Had Lifted Your Hands And Wept: But, The Bird In My Fingers, I Mounted, Remembering Alone That Delight Of Twilight And Slumber Were Gone, And That Hoofs Im- Patiently Stept. I Died, "O Niamh! O White One! If Only A Twelve- Houred Day, I Must Gaze On The Beard Of Finn, And Move Where The Old Men And Young In The Fenians' Dwellings Of Wattle Lean On The Chess- Boards And Play, Ah, Sweet To Me Now Were Even Bald Conan'S Slanderous Tongue! "Like Me Were Some Galley Forsaken Far Off In Meridian Isle, Remembering Its Long-Oared Companions, Sails Turning To Threadbare Rags; No More To Crawl On The Seas With Long Oars Mile After Mile, But To Be Amid Shooting Of Flies And Flowering Of Rushes And Flags.' Their Motionless Eyeballs Of Spirits Grown Mild With Mysterious Thought, Watched Her Those Seamless Faces From The Valley'S Glimmering Girth; As She Murmured, "O Wandering Oisin, The Strength Of The Bell-Branch Is Naught, For There Moves Alive In Your Fingers The Fluttering Sad- Ness Of Earth. "Then Go Through The Lands In The Saddle And See What The Mortals Do, And Softly Come To Your Niamh Over The Tops Of The Tide; But Weep For Your Niamh, O Oisin, Weep; For If Only Your Shoe Brush Lightly As Haymouse Earth'S Pebbles, You Will Come No More To My Side. "O Flaming Lion Of The World, O When Will You Turn To Your Rest?' I Saw From A Distant Saddle; From The Earth She Made Her Moan: "I Would Die Like A Small Withered Leaf In The Autumn, For Breast Unto Breast We Shall Mingle No More, Nor Our Gazes Empty Their Sweetness Lone "In The Isles Of The Farthest Seas Where Only The Spirits Come. Were The Winds Less Soft Than The Breath Of A Pigeon Who Sleeps On Her Nest, Nor Lost In The Star-Fires And Odours The Sound Of The Sea'S Vague Drum? O Flaming Lion Of The World, O When Will You Turn To Your Rest?' The Wailing Grew Distant; I Rode By The Woods Of The Wrinkling Bark, Where Ever Is Murmurous Dropping, Old Silence And That One Sound; For No Live Creatures Live There, No Weasels Move In The Dark: In A Reverie Forgetful Of All Things, Over The Bubbling' Ground. And I Rode By The Plains Of The Sea'S Edge, Where All Is Barren And Grey, Grey Sand On The Green Of The Grasses And Over The Dripping Trees, Dripping And Doubling Landward, As Though They Would Hasten Away', Like An Army Of Old Men Longing For Rest From The Moan Of The Seas. And The Winds Made The Sands On The Sea'S Edge Turning And Turning Go, As My Mind Made The Names Of The Fenians. Far From The Hazel And Oak, I Rode Away On The Surges, Where, High As The Saddle- Bow, Fled Foam Underneath Me, And Round Me, A Wandering And Milky Smoke. Long Fled The Foam-Flakes Around Me, The Winds Fled Out Of The Vast, Snatching The Bird In Secret; Nor Knew I, Embosomed Apart, When They Froze The Cloth On My Body Like Armour Riveted Fast, For Remembrance, Lifting Her Leanness, Keened In The Gates Of My Heart. Till, Fattening The Winds Of The Morning, An Odour Of New-Mown Hay Came, And My Forehead Fell Low, And My Tears Like Berries Fell Down; Later A Sound Came, Half Lost In The Sound Of A Shore Far Away, From The Great Grass-Barnacle Calling, And Later The Shore-Weeds Brown. If I Were As I Once Was, The Strong Hoofs Crushing The Sand And The Shells, Coming Out Of The Sea As The Dawn Comes, A Chaunt Of Love On My Lips, Not Coughing, My Head On My Knees, And Praying, And Wroth With The Bells, I Would Leave No Saint'S Head On His Body From Rachlin To Bera Of Ships. Making Way From The Kindling Surges, I Rode On A Bridle-Path Much Wondering To See Upon All Hands, Of Wattles And Woodwork Made, Your Bell-Mounted Churches, And Guardless The Sacred Cairn And The Mth, And A Small And A Feeble Populace Stooping With Mat- Tock And Spade, Or Weeding Or Ploughing With Faces A-Shining With Much-Toil Wet; While In This Place And That Place, With Bodies Un, Glorious, Their Chieftains Stood, Awaiting In Patience The Straw-Death, Croziered One, Caught In Your Net: Went The Laughter Of Scorn From My Mouth Like The Roaring Of Wind In A Wood. And Before I Went By Them So Huge And So Speedy With Eyes So Bright, Came After The Hard Gaze Of Youth, Or An Old Man Lifted His Head: And I Rode And I Rode, And I Cried Out, "The Fenians Hunt Wolves In The Night, So Sleep Thee By Daytime.' A Voice Cried, "The Fenians A Long Time Are Dead.' A Whitebeard Stood Hushed On The Pathway, The Flesh Of His Face As Dried Grass, And In Folds Round His Eyes And His Mouth, He Sad As A Child Without Milk- And The Dreams Of The Islands Were Gone, And I Knew How Men Sorrow And Pass, And Their Hound, And Their Horse, And Their Love, And Their Eyes That Glimmer Like Silk. And Wrapping My Face In My Hair, I Murmured, "In Old Age They Ceased'; And My Tears Were Larger Than Berries, And I Mur- Mured, "Where White Clouds Lie Spread On Crevroe Or Broad Knockfefin, With Many Of Old They Feast On The Floors Of The Gods.' He Cried, "No, The Gods A Long Time Are Dead.' And Lonely And Longing For Niamh, I Shivered And Turned Me About, The Heart In Me Longing To Leap Like A Grasshopper Into Her Heart; I Turned And Rode To The Westward, And Followed The Sea'S Old Shout Till I Saw Where Maeve Lies Sleeping Till Starlight And Midnight Part. And There At The Foot Of The Mountain, Two Carried A Sack Full Of Sand, They Bore It With Staggering And Sweating, But Fell With Their Burden At Length. Leaning Down From The Gem-Studded Saddle, I Flung It Five Yards With My Hand, With A Sob For Men Waxing So Weakly, A Sob For The Fenians' Old Strength. The Rest You Have Heard Of, O Croziered Man; How, When Divided The Girth, I Fell On The Path, And The Horse Went Away Like A Sum- Mer Fly; And My Years Three Hundred Fell On Me, And I Rose, And Walked On The Earth, A Creeping Old Man, Full Of Sleep, With The Spittle On His Beard Never Dry'. How The Men Of The Sand-Sack Showed Me A Church With Its Belfry In Air; Sorry Place, Where For Swing Of The War-Axe In My Dim Eyes The Crozier Gleams; What Place Have Caoilte And Conan, And Bran, Sceolan, Lomair? Speak, You Too Are Old With Your Memories, An Old Man Surrounded With Dreams. I(S. Patrick.) Where The Flesh Of The Footsole Clingeth On The Burning Stones Is Their Place; Where The Demons Whip Them With Wires On The Burning Stones Of Wide Hell, Watching The Blessed Ones Move Far Off, And The Smile On God'S Face, Between Them A Gateway Of Brass, And The Howl Of The Angels Who Fell. I(Oisin.) Put The Staff In My Hands; For I Go To The Fenians, O Cleric, To Chaunt The War-Songs That Roused Them Of Old; They Will Rise, Making Clouds With Their Breath, Innumerable, Singing, Exultant; The Clay Underneath Them Shall Pant, And Demons Be Broken In Pieces, And Trampled Beneath Them In Death. And Demons Afraid In Their Darkness; Deep Horror Of Eyes And Of Wings, Afraid, Their Ears On The Earth Laid, Shall Listen And Rise Up And Weep; Hearing The Shaking Of Shields And The Quiver Of Stretched Bowstrings, Hearing Hell Loud With A Murmur, As Shouting And Mocking We Sweep. We Will Tear Out The Flaming Stones, And Batter The Gateway Of Brass And Enter, And None Sayeth "No' When There Enters The Strongly Armed Guest; Make Clean As A Broom Cleans, And March On As Oxen Move Over Young Grass; Then Feast, Making Converse Of Wars, And Of Old Wounds, And Turn To Our Rest. I(S. Patrick.) On The Flaming Stones, Without Refuge, The Limbs Of The Fenians Are Tost; None War On The Masters Of Hell, Who Could Break Up The World In Their Rage; But Kneel And Wear Out The Flags And Pray For Your Soul That Is Lost Through The Demon Love Of Its Youth And Its Godless And Passionate Age. I(Oisin.) Ah Me! To Be Shaken With Coughing And Broken With Old Age And Pain, Without Laughter, A Show Unto Children, Alone With Remembrance And Fear; All Emptied Of Purple Hours As A Beggar'S Cloak In The Rain, As A Hay-Cock Out On The Flood, Or A Wolf Sucked Under A Weir. It Were Sad To Gaze On The Blessed And No Man I Loved Of Old There; I Throw Down The Chain Of Small Stones! When Life In My Body Has Ceased, I Will Go To Caoilte, And Conan, And Bran, Sceolan, Lomair, And Dwell In The House Of The Fenians, Be They In Flames Or At Feast.